Cobalt Blue
by HPfanatic592
Summary: Never write your heart out on the paper where everyone can see it. Especially the one who has your heart. Ficlet.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything in this little piece of my imagination I like to call a story.

…

She watched him closely, careful not to be discovered staring by him or others. He entwined his dark fingers in his shiny black hair; Hermione sighed.

Outsiders would call her a stalker, for she knew everything she could about Blaise Zabini. He stood at six feet tall, with long, graceful fingers, a slightly snobby manner, and a stark, dry sense of humor. His mother was one of the most beautiful women in the witching world in her time, and she had been widowed seven times. Blaise had no true father to speak of. He lived in West Sussex, in a manor that could compete with the Malfoy's. He was alone much of the time, occasionally with another Slytherin, but that was rare. She knew his schedule by heart. He was handsome, and envied. He was also extremely prejudiced against non-purebloods, Hermione assumed because of his upbringing and not of his own opinion.

Blaise Zabini was an enigma.

At first, she waived her feelings off as just a spark of passing beauty. But she became rapidly obsessed with the dark Slytherin in the next few months, stealing glances at lunch and breakfast everyday. If she did not see him one day, she threw a mental fit and went to the library to busy herself. Hermione didn't know where he went when he was gone; she presumed the Slytherin common room, but it just didn't fit him. He was too…real for that socialism. He had a past. She saw it in his eyes when he was staring into space, an emptiness that she couldn't avoid.

Hermione had never experienced a great loss. One time, she imagined her mother had died, and almost cried at the thought. Blaise had no father. Did he even know who his father was? Did Blaise's father stand out in the yard behind the house, playing Quidditch on fake brooms and tossing around a plastic Quaffle; Or did he sit inside his office all day with the door shut; Did he even care?

…

Today Hermione sat in the library, unable to complete her Ancient Runes essay. Her mind was wandering, and it needed to be settled out. She carefully folded her essay and put it back in her bag. Setting aside her usual turkey feather quill and black ink, she pulled out a beautiful hand-blown glass quill and cobalt blue ink. Dipping her pen into the well, she began writing on the parchment. She wrote of him, of thoughts, of things that never would be. Her writing sloped and arched with messiness and erratic lines. Her glass quill clinked as she wrote two, three, four pages full of musings and dreams and hopes and a grasp that, maybe someday, he would be able to understand.

Hermione was so engrossed in writing that she didn't even notice a tall black boy sit down next to her. If she had, she would have been uncomfortable at the way he stared at her and the end of the glass pen as it bobbed up and down, side to side.

A low, deep, drawling voice. "It's a Murano."

Hermione practically broke the pen as she jerked in surprise. Her breath caught in her throat. Blaise Zabini sat two feet away from her. "Huh?" she said dumbly, staring at his eyes. His beautiful cobalt blue eyes.

"Your pen," he said in the same deep voice, "is Venetian Murano glass."

"Well…uh- yeah…I- I…guess it is."

"My father owned that business."

She stiffened at the mention of his father. So he knew his dad. She nodded. She wasn't supposed to know his secrets.

"My mother bought it on vacation in Italy," Hermione said shyly, hoping there would be no awkward silence. Blaise nodded.

"What are you writing?" He seemed amused.

Hermione blushed profusely, thanking God that it was fairly dim in the back section of the library. She looked down at the sheets of parchment covered in blue ink, and it was all about the boy sitting next to her.

He raised his eyebrows and squinted at the parchment. Hermione hastily gathered it up and folded it over, stuffing it in her bag with her glass quill and ink.

"Well- um, it's time for dinner…I guess I'll…see you around?" she offered, picking up her bag and standing up.

"Sure."

She gave him a little nod of goodbye and walked towards the oaken doors of her book haven. As she reached the golden handle, she noticed that her hands were splattered with cobalt blue ink.

**END**


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